TW: Talk of suicide, trauma. If you are having thoughts of suicide, self-harm, and need support, call or text 988, or visit 988lifeline.org.

I keep picking at the scab
When I thought ending my life
Was an easier solution
To avoid the pain
Of not being good enough.
I should probably get rid of that shirt
That is morbidly comforting
But a stark reminder
Of how close I got,
But was able
To teeter that edge
Before getting scared off

Most days, I like living,
And experiencing all in a day’s bustle,
The good, the bad and the ugly
Hustle that reminds me I’m alive.

I can’t forget the secondhand fear,
Of one on another line,
A wavelength in the distance
That told me I said goodbye,
And that it was too much,
Too much pain, too much sorrow,
Too much to deal with
The neverending cycle.

My groveling and sniveling
Self esteem was not throwing a rope,
Was not looking for validation.
Shriveled to the point where it didn’t matter how I was perceived,
Where my value was nothing,
Just wanted to be done
And not in so much pain.

Why is it when you think you’ve
Healed enough,
When you think you’ve made it
Passed a certain point,
When something happens
That gnaws off the rough-hewn cap to the wound,
That collapses that house of cards,
That rice paper-thin knife’s edge,
Between the end
And your distractions?

I owe a lot to that edge.
That rice paper thin,
Razor sharp edge
That hurt enough
And tore at the sensibility
Left in that one brain cell.
That one last gasp
Of life
To keep going.

That one brain cell
That didn’t turn off
That one antenna
That kept me
From hurting
All the way through.

©️ Samantha Mae Sweeney 2023